Forgiveness
by Gemma-2012
Summary: A woman goes down into the cellars of the Opera to avenge her relative's death. However, everything turns out to be different from what she expected. Will she be able to overcome her hatred and help Erik to fight his despair or is it already too late for him? Leroux based. Erik/OC.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera. The original characters of this story were created by me.

Please enjoy!

**Prologue**

**_Thursday, November 25_****_th_****_, 1880_**

_This is the end. She left me. I know that I let her go myself, but it doesn't make me feel better. It is rather ironic, isn't it? I have wanted to be like everyone else my whole life, to have a wife who would try (at least try) to love me, and, at the end, when I was finally approaching my goal, I refused to take what she was offering me. And now she is in that boy's arms. This thought alone is enough to make my blood boil!_

_I'm dying. I know that I am. There is nothing left for me in this world. I think that daroga did not believe me when I said I was dying of love. He's too practical for this and, besides, I have told him too many lies and he knows that. That's the problem of telling lies – no one believes you anymore, even if what you are saying turns out to be true._

_But this is how it is, I'm dying of love and there is nothing I can do about it (and nothing I really want to do). I feel that my end is very near and I will send Christine's relics to daroga in a few days. _

_I wonder if I should prepare myself somehow before going for my last journey. Actually, there's nothing to prepare, apart from taking my finally finished opera with me. I have told Christine I wanted to be buried with it, so I'm sure she will know what to do with my manuscript._

_And what if she breaks her promise and doesn't come to bury me? No! I will not even think about it! She's the most wonderful, generous woman who has ever walked the Earth and she will come. I am sure of it. She would never lie to me; she's completely incapable of lying. I will die in a couple of days (of love, as I have already said) and she will come to bury me with the wedding ring I gave her. But if she still doesn't come? Well, if this happens, it will mean he did not allow her to keep her promise. He's the count now; he may do whatever he wishes. And, if she has already become his wife, she will have to obey him. I would never ask her to obey me. I would be her faithful dog, ready to die for her at any moment. She would do whatever she wanted with me if she had only become my wife. _

_Enough! It will never happen and I must stop thinking about it! I let her go. I could have made her stay, but I let her go. It is because I love her. I really love her. And I want her to be happy. Her happiness is more important for me than my own. _

_Isn't it wonderful? I have finally learnt, at the end of my life, how to love someone. I will carry this love to my grave. I will keep repeating her name till my last breath. Christine, Christine, Christine…_

_And if she doesn't come? Stop! I will go mad. I mean madder than I already am. _

_But… How much I want her to come!_

**Note: **Thank you very much for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera. The original characters of this story were created by me.

**Chapter I**

**In search of the ghost**

"I'm going to kill that man. I'm completely sure of it. I have spent two months preparing myself, physically as well as mentally, and I'm not giving up now."

I kept repeating those words over and over again, as though trying to convince myself that it was true, that I was really going to attempt a murder. I did not like to call it that – it was not a murder; it was an act of revenge. That man was nothing but a monster and he certainly deserved to die. He had killed innocent people, one of whom had been my aunt.

She had been the sweetest, kindest person I had ever known. She was like a mother to me. And she had never harmed anyone in her entire life. She did not deserve to die, she did nothing wrong – just came to see an opera, for the first time of her life. It had also been her last time – a two-hundred kilos chandelier ended her earthly existence.

I continued walking inside the dark tunnels, hoping that I had chosen the right path. I would certainly become lost if it weren't for the plan I had drawn almost two months ago, on the day when I had followed that man into the Palais Garnier's underground cellars. It had happened just several days after the fall of that fatal chandelier; it was when I decided to kill that murderer.

I heard a sound of rats' running and stopped; I wasn't afraid of them, but I was not very eager to meet them either, in case they tried to bite me. The air was getting thicker and thicker with every step and it was difficult to breath – I was several feet under the ground level and was probably approaching the lake (at least I hoped so). The sooner I got there, the sooner I would accomplish what I had planned.

It had all begun two months ago. My aunt, Agathe Blanc, was Firman Richard's concierge. It was he who invited her to the opera the night she was killed. If she only knew what would happen when she accepted that invitation! She was so happy when Richard asked her whether she wanted to visit the Opera Theatre and to begin working there. She was mad of joy, spent all the morning of that day speaking about the future event, asked her husband and brother to come with her. I would have joined her as well, as she was eager for me to come, but I went to dinner with my fiancé that night. If I had only known.

"You shouldn't be so unforgiving, Gwenaëlle," my aunt had told many years ago. "You are a good girl, but you should learn to forgive. It will do you no good only to see the negative side of everyone."

By that time I had been hoping to be able to follow her advice. However, when I was going down that theatre, I was happy I wasn't. I had no desire to forgive the man who had taken my aunt's life.

I knew from the beginning that that chandelier had not fallen by itself. Someone had dropped in on purpose. Why had this person done it? I had no idea and, frankly, I did not care. All I wanted was to avenge her death, and I began acting very quickly.

Monsieur Richard was very shocked by the "accident". I knew he probably couldn't have prevented it, but I couldn't help being angry with him – he had invited my aunt to the Opera, after all. He said he did not believe in stories about the Opera Ghost (I had not been at the Palais Garnier more than once because of the price of the tickets, but I was aware of that story). I, on the other hand, did think it was true. Of course it wasn't the ghost I believed in, but a man – some criminal or escaped convict who had been hiding under the theatre to avoid the justice. I understood that, in order the reach my goal, I should find him.

One week after my aunt's death I asked Monsieur Richard to allow me to come to the theatre, to pay respects to her memory and to leave flowers on her seat; after some hesitations, he agreed. There was no performance that day, as the police was still investigating the causes of the chandelier's fall. The managers, Richard and his colleague Armand Moncharmin, were of no use to me, as they walked the stage with hanging heads and appeared completely absorbed in their thoughts. I supposed they were worried they might be held responsible for the tragedy. They could also have been threatened by the Opera Ghost, but no one expressed that thought aloud. Many things were said, however, in a low voice.

"It has been the Ghost, I'm sure of it," shouted a young ballet girl, whom everyone called little Jammes. "I think I saw him when he was dropping that chandelier."

"Did you? Really?" said the other ballet girl, the one called Meg. "Why didn't you tell us before?"

"Stop saying nonsense, girls," said sharply La Sorelli, one of the principle dancers. "No one has ever seen him. Maybe he doesn't even exist."

"It isn't true," shouted Jammes on the top of her lungs. "Joseph Buquet has. And look where he is now. Besides, we may not have seen him, but we have certainly heard him. 'She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!'" cried the ballet girl even louder and trying to make her voice graver, which made her companions cry in horror and provoked an annoyed sigh from La Sorelli.

"Poor Carlotta! I will spend the rest of my life remembering her coacks," said Meg and, that time, everyone, including La Sorelli, laughed; whoever that Carlotta was, no one seemed terribly fond of her.

I spent some more time listening to that conversation. They had been near the main staircase of the Palais Garnier and I was hidden behind one of the columns. It wasn't very easy to hear what they were saying because everyone, apart from the little Jammes, was whispering rather than talking, but it was definitely worth it. I learnt that my unfortunate aunt hadn't been that monster's first victim. Some time before that, a man, called Joseph Buquet, had been found hanging. I also heard that Meg's mother, Madame Giry, seemed to know quite a lot about the man I was looking for. I was hoping she may try to help me in my search, but it did not work as well as I expected.

"Can I speak to you, please? It is very important," I said to Madame Giry when I managed to find her.

"What is it?" she asked sharply. "Sorry, but I'm rather busy right now."

"Can you please tell me everything you know about the Opera Ghost?"

I regretted having said that almost immediately, as the woman turned and walked away without paying me any attention. I was about to leave the theatre, angry and disappointed, when I saw a man with a long frock-coat and a pointed cap, walking very quickly and turning round from time to time as though making sure that nobody was following him. I did follow him myself, trying my best not to be noticed. He approached a small door and, opening it, stepped inside a dark passage. I had to be very quick to be able to follow him and very careful not to discover my presence. Once inside the Opera cellars, I pressed myself against the wall, trying to avoid the light of his gas lantern.

We spent quite a long time walking, always going down and down, from one cellar to another, until I finally saw a lake and a boat. The mysterious man stepped into the boat and rowed to the other side of the wall. Suddenly, I heard a voice of extraordinary beauty, coming from the surface of the water. The man must have heard it too, for he leaned out of the boat over the lake, as if trying to approach the sound. And then two arms appeared from the water and dragged him below the lake. I was so shocked and frightened by what I was seeing that it did not even occur to me to try to help him; the only thing I wanted to do was to go back and to abandon that awful place.

The man, however, did not die. The person to whom those arms belonged swam with him and laid him on the bank. Then they talked. It did not take me long time to understand that that other man was the one I was looking for, the one I was going to kill. It was the Opera Ghost and his name was Erik. Actually, I did not care about his name, but I couldn't help hearing the other one to pronounce it. I tensed when they mentioned the chandelier. That murderer dared to joke about the tragedy and said that the chandelier had been "very old and worn". He mockingly assured that it wasn't his fault, but the other man, to whom he referred as "daroga", did not believe it. Neither did I – I was more sure than ever that he was guilty of killing my aunt and injuring her husband and brother, as well as other innocent people.

On that day Erik's fate was decided. I would kill him without mercy. I made all the necessary preparations: drew a plan of the path daroga and I had followed (I had a rather good memory), wrote a letter to my uncle (who was still in hospital) in case I did not come back and bought a revolver. I did not know how to use the arm and had no idea where I could practise or who could teach me how to shoot. At the end, I decided to go without practising and also bring a dagger, just in case.

Almost two months after my aunt's death, I descended into the underground cellars of the Opera Theatre. Thanks to my plan, it was easier than I had thought. The problems began when I approached the lake. As I had feared, the boat wasn't there and I had to swim. It was quite inconvenient, but I wasn't going to stop. There were very few things at that moment that could actually stop me. I came out of the lake and made a few steps when I was suddenly blinded by a bright light coming from nowhere. It took me some time to understand that I was inside a room.

"It must be the place where this murderer lives," I thought, happy that it had been so easy to find.

But then my happiness was transformed into worry and even fear. What if he had heard me and would kill me right now? I must have been more careful but it was too late to think about it now. I walked out of the room and entered another one; it was full of dead flowers and held some macabre resemblance with a cemetery. That man, I thought, apart from being a criminal, must be also mad.

It did not take me very long to find him; actually, he turned out to be in that second room, but it wasn't easy to understand at the beginning that a dark thing, which laid on a sofa with his back turned to me, was actually a human figure. It rather looked like a skeleton dressed in clothes. I approached him with a mixture of revulsion, hatred and fear. I couldn't believe it would be so easy. There must certainly be some kind of trick; he must be armed as well and was going to shoot me when I approached him.

I came closer, holding the revolver firmly in my right hand; then he must have heard my steps, for he stood up. He did not face me.

"Leave, daroga. Please, let me alone," he said in a hoarse voice.

"I'm not daroga," I said, approaching him even more.

"Whoever you are, Madame, and whatever your business in my house is, I beg you to leave. Don't you see I'm trying to die?"

"I can definitely help you with that," I said, lifted the arm and pulled the trigger.

**Note: **Thank you very much for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **Samantha Michaelis and Million, thank you very much for your reviews!

**Chapter II**

**Trapped**

**_Sunday, December 5_****_th_****_, 1880_**

_All my fears have materialised – she did not come. I was waiting for her, but she did not come. I can't imagine how I will be able to go on. Actually, I'm not supposed to be alive, as she must have come here to bury me. But she did not show up, so it doesn't make any difference anymore. _

_I will die very soon. At least I hope so. What should I live for? My only hope has vanished. I must be paying for all the crimes I have committed; and the worst of all of them was to have been born. I hate my mother more and more every day – if she couldn't have given me a little of her love, she could at least have shown some pity and killed me after my birth. It would have been a real act of mercy. _

_I haven't been eating for… I don't remember for how long, and I still can't die. I continue soiling this world with my monstrous presence. Neither a man nor an animal. Those of the human kind are right – I am nothing but a monster, a hideous repulsive monster. But I could deal with that. I have already done it more than once. What I can't deal with is Christine's betrayal. _

_She betrayed me. For the second time. She, the purest of all living creatures, lied to me. I don't know what I am waiting for to cut my throat and save myself from this endless suffering! Could it be that I don't have the courage to accomplish this final and glorious act? Instead, I'm lying on a sofa and staring at a wall._

_I will wait until tomorrow, in case she has mercy on me and finally comes. If she doesn't, I will end this needless existence. I'm trapped inside this damned body and want to be free at last._

_:::_

I couldn't believe how stupid I had been. How could I forget that my revolver had been wet in the lake and I may not be able to fire because of that? I had hardly any knowledge in firearms, but I should have foreseen it. So there I stood, with my revolver still pointed at that man's head. Surprisingly, I did not try to shoot again. My potential victim did not pay me any attention and lied down on the sofa, without uttering a single word.

I stopped in the middle of the room, shocked and not knowing what to do. Suddenly, I remembered that I carried a dagger with me, but the idea of using it now filled me with dread, and I felt a cold sweat on my forehead.

I did not know how much time I had been standing like that, but when I finally recovered my senses, I turned away and ran to the boat. I was almost crying from shame and disappointment – spending all that time preparing myself for revenge and now, when everything was finally ready, not being able to take a final step. I approached the boat, but then my blood ran cold. The plan of the underground cellars. I took it from a pocket of my skirt – I was right, it was completely impossible to read it because the ink had dissolved in the water. I wouldn't be able to find my way back.

Without knowing what I was doing, I approached that murderer again.

"I was going to kill you," I said to him, trying to sound sure of myself. "But, at the end, I have decided to spare your life. You clearly don't deserve my mercy, but if I kill you, I will become a murderer, too. But, you must give me something in return. You must show me how to go back to the ground level."

It was the most stupid thing I had ever said, but I was truly desperate and wasn't thinking straight. I was expecting him to be angry, but he did not say a word and did not even move from his sofa. And then, when I already began wondering if he was dead (he had said, after all, that he was going to die), he laughed. It was the most dreadful, unnatural sound I had ever heard in my entire life; it sounded as though it were coming from the depths of the Hell.

"What do you find so funny?" I asked him, trying to appear angry and not frightened.

"I must give you something in return and, this way, you will spare my life! But it must be all the other way round. I would give you something if you promised to kill me. However, judging by what you have just done, I seriously doubt you will be able to accomplish this simple task," his voice was quite weak but not as hoarse as before.

"This is how you repay me!" I exclaimed with feigned outrage (after all, I had spent several years in an amateur theatre). "Would you rather be shot right now? Tell me; because, if you would, I will gladly comply with your request – it will be a pleasure for me and a favour to society to end your miserable life."

"You have a remarkable way of speaking, Madame, but, I daresay, you fail to impress me," he laughed again, making that awful deep sound.

"You are completely mistaken. I haven't come here to impress you, but to free the world of your presence and thus save innocent people you would surely kill."

"Innocent people," he repeated with disdain. "What make you think they are innocent? How do you know they haven't committed any crimes themselves?"

"Even if they have, they don't deserve to die."

"And what do they deserve?"

I did not answer him because I had no idea what to say.

"It seems you are at a loss for words," he said mockingly and finally faced me; he was wearing a black mask.

"I have no intention of having any kind of conversation with a murderer," I said, not being able to stop looking at his masked face.

"It sounds funny, don't you think?" he laughed again, as though not being able to control himself. "You come to my house without being invited, try to shoot me, disturb my rest with your stupid questions and then you say you have no intention of talking to a murderer. Believe me, I have no intention of talking to you either."

"I had my reason to come," I said, feeling suddenly very angry.

"And what was it, if I may ask?"

"You killed my aunt!" I shouted, not being able to restrain myself any longer; I knew that I was about to punch him.

"Did I?" there was no regret or remorse in his voice, only doubt. "I don't remember doing so. I have never killed a woman before."

"And what about the chandelier?" I shouted even louder, trying to ignore his "before" and what it might have implied.

"Ah, that," he made a disdainful gesture with his hand, and, despite the intensity of the situation, I couldn't help noticing how thin it was, like a hand of a skeleton, covered with yellow skin. "Why are you all so concerned about that stupid chandelier? First, daroga; now, you. It wasn't I."

"Do you mean it fell by itself?" I asked sarcastically.

"I suppose so. Even if it did not, it had nothing to do with me."

"I don't believe you," I said in a low voice, taking a step toward him.

"Good. I don't care whether you believe me or not. Actually, I don't care about you at all. And now," he sighed, "can you please leave?"

"I would if I knew the path. I can't use my plan anymore," I hated to ask that monster for help, but it was the only possibility I had to find my way out.

"Bad luck," he said and turned his back to me.

"If you want me to leave your house, you must show me the way," it was actually a plea, but I made it sound like an ultimatum.

"I will show you nothing. NOW LEAVE!" he shouted in a horribly disfigured voice and I suddenly found him standing in front of me, with his skeletal hands around my neck.

I was taken aback by that sudden display of fury and desperately tried to release myself from his grip.

"You are looking at me with curiosity. You are desperate to know what I hide behind this mask. Maybe you have already imagined a handsome outcast, hiding in the depths of the theatre, with whom you would happily spend one night or two, forgetting about the poor aunt he supposedly killed."

"How dare you?" I felt that I was getting red from the effort to free myself and from that offence. "I would never have anything to do with a murderer and would never spend a night with a man other than my husband."

He lifted my chin, looked at me and I suddenly drowned in his eyes – they were neither yellow nor brown, but of a strange golden colour I had never seen before. Who was that man? And was he even a man or some sort of creature, arrived from another planet or even galaxy?

I lost any track of time and wouldn't be able to say how many seconds or even minutes we spent standing like that, looking at each other. When he finally released me, it took me some time to understand that I was free at last. Then I turned on my heels and ran. I did not lose precious time using the boat (besides, I had never rowed and wasn't sure it was a good moment to learn). I jumped into the lake and swam. When I reached the other shore, I kept on running and running. When I finally understood that I was lost in that enormous underground labyrinth and had no idea where to go, it was already too late.

Reluctantly, I decided to find my way back to that man's lair and try to convince him to show me the path. It was quite possible that he would kill me, but it would be better than dying alone in underground cellars.

I spent several minutes walking and began to think that I had managed to find the path that would lead to the man when I saw something strange coming towards me. It was luminous and flew in the air. When it came closer, I saw that it looked like some sort of flame shaped as a man's face. That thing was approaching me with a maddening speed, and I finally reacted and began to run in a desperate attempt to escape. Suddenly, I fell on the floor. Then I saw nothing more.

**Note: **Thank you very much for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **Samantha Michaelis, thank you very much for your reviews!

**Chapter III**

**Unmasked**

The first thing I saw when I came to myself was a black fabric, which appeared to be silk. It took me some time to understand that it was that black mask I had seen before. Instinctively, I leaned back and, feeling that he was holding my hand, I snatched it from him.

"Don't touch me," I said, full of outrage. "What do you want from me? How dare you come near me?"

"I have no desire to come near you, believe me," he answered with sarcasm and stepped back. "It wasn't my fault, after all, that you fainted and I had to carry you. But I can see that gratitude isn't one of your virtues, if you have any at all."

"I wouldn't have fainted if you hadn't sent that strange thing to pursue me," I said defensively. "And what should I be grateful for? For saving me in order to kill me later with your own hands?"

I was expecting an answer but did not get one and, as I still felt very weak, had to lie down. I hated that man with all my heart and detested the idea of being in his house but I had no other choice.

About one hour later, I felt better and got up from the sofa, where I had been lying. It was the same room as the one I had been in before, but it had more candles lighted. Unlike my previous impression and in spite of dead flowers that were everywhere, the room was perfectly normal, even too normal for that kind of place.

Then I exited it and entered into another one, a furnished little bedroom, with chest of drawers in the style of Louis-Philippe; it seemed even more normal. I approached the sofa and was about to sit down when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned round.

"Have I given you permission to enter this room?" he asked in a seemingly calm voice, but I couldn't help noticing how his golden eyes sparkled with hatred and rage.

"No, but…"

"Then why have you come here?" he interrupted me and came nearer. "I am asking you, why?" his voice became lower, but thus he appeared even more dangerous.

I did not answer him and tried to go out of the room, but he grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

"Answer me!" he roared; I couldn't see his face but was sure it was distorted with anger.

"I did not know it was forbidden," I said, without really knowing what to answer. "Let go of me right now!"

I finally managed to break loose and ran out of the room. However; I did not go too far, as the madman followed me and grabbed me again, squeezing my shoulders with violence. I broke free again and punched him in the face twice. He stopped, apparently in shock.

"This is better," I said. "Now tell me how to get out of this damned house. There's nothing I want more than to leave and never see your face again."

"My face?" he burst out laughing. "You are speaking as though you have seen it. I assure you, if you had, you definitely wouldn't want to see it again."

"I don't care about your face at all. The only thing I want is to leave as soon as possible."

"You really don't care about my face?" he seemed genuinely surprised.

"Why should I?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Show me the way back," I said tentatively.

"Do you think, Madame, that I am _that _stupid?" he laughed, making again that awful sound. "I will show you the path and then you will bring the police to my house. I have spent too much time protecting it to give up now."

"I won't bring anyone," my voice did not sound very confident and I was aware of that; he was right, I would bring the police to his house and try to convince them he was responsible for the chandelier's fall. "And it's not 'Madame', it's 'Mademoiselle'," I said, trying to change the subject.

"Really?" he asked mockingly. "Aren't you too old not to be married?"

"It isn't of any concern of yours," I said in a vain attempt to hide how offended I had been by his comment; unfortunately, he wasn't the first person to tell me that. "Will you show me the path?" I tried, for the second time, to change the subject.

"I did not do it," he said unexpectedly.

"What?" I asked, not understanding what he meant.

"It wasn't I who dropped the chandelier. I have already told you that."

I opened my mouth, but did not know what to say, and stayed silent. He looked me in the eyes and I averted my gaze.

"Do you believe in God?" I asked after a while.

He did not answer.

"Well, I don't," I said. "But if you do, swear to me that you are not guilty and I will walk out of here and leave you in peace."

"Is my promise not enough?"

"I'm not sure of the value of your promise."

I tried to be sincere with him, but he suddenly became upset, appearing very vulnerable. I hated to admit it to myself, but I couldn't help feeling pity towards him.

"It may be enough," I finally said. "But I need some proofs."

"What proofs?" he exclaimed with anger and exasperation. "How can I give you these proofs?"

"I don't know," I said with resignation.

There was again silence between us. That time it was he who broke it.

"Is it true what you said about not caring how I looked like?" I thought I had heard a mixture of suspicion and malice in his voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"Would you like me to show you?" he stepped forward and I suddenly became afraid of him, he was definitely a completely insane person, with a strange and manic behaviour. "Would you like to see a monster's face?"

"It is up to you," I said without looking at him and feeling very uncomfortable.

"Then look. Behold!" he exclaimed with some kind of a desperate triumph and removed his mask.

It took me some time to understand what was in front of me. He was clearly expecting to frighten me but I wasn't truly afraid. I was surprised and failed to understand what I was actually seeing. His face (if _that _could be considered a face) was that of a corpse, but of a corpse suddenly returned to life. How could a living person look like that? In spite of myself, I began to feel a little sorry for that mad and clearly unhappy man. What was it like for him to be living with that face?

He clearly expected a completely different reaction from me and stepped back in shock; as though being upset that I had not run away screaming. After looking at me in disbelief, he put his mask back, held my hand and dragged me with him; I was so stunned that I did not even try to resist. I don't remember what path we followed but I suddenly found myself standing in front of a gate. He took out a key and opened it.

"You are free," he said letting me pass and without looking at me.

"You are letting me go?" I still did not trust him and was expecting some kind of ruse.

"Do you prefer to stay?" he asked sarcastically. "Or you are waiting till I change my mind?"

Without uttering a word, I passed through the gate and heard how it was being closed behind me. In a few minutes, I found out that I was in the Rue Scribe; I had no idea that it was possible to access the underground cellars from that place.

I walked away with some kind of reluctance, which quite surprised me. What surprised me even more was the fact that I was sure I would try to come back and I couldn't understand why.

**Note: **Thank you for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **Thank you very much to newbornphantic, Samantha Michaelis and coyotegirl56 for their reviews and to everyone who has followed my story or added it to favourites!

**Chapter IV**

**Coming back**

**_Monday, December 6th, 1880_**

_A strange woman came to my house. She was lucky that the siren trick had not been activated. Why did she come? Why do people insist on disturbing me from my rest? Why can't I finally die? And why am I suddenly so alarmed, even excited? How can a corpse become excited? I go deeper and deeper into the black hole of my own feverish mind; I feel I am madder than ever. Why do I continue living when it would be so easy to end everything (having finished more than once other people's lives, I thought I would be better at committing suicide). My existence just doesn't make any sense at all. _

_Christine did not come. And why didn't she come? That's the question I keep on asking and asking, without finding any answer to it. She did not love me; of course she didn't, but she promised she would come to bury me. Did she lie to me? It doesn't make any sense either. Why would she lie to her poor unhappy Erik? Why would she make him believe she felt pity for him instead of fear and repulsion? Why would she make him believe he could die in piece, having finally known the joy of being… not loved – he wouldn't even dare to think about something like that – but kissed. He, who had never kissed a woman before. Why would she show him all that kindness and leave him again in the dark, without even keeping her promise? Why would an angel like her behave like a monster? _

_The strange woman is strange indeed. She said she wanted to avenge her mother's death… or was it her aunt? I don't remember well. Why would she risk her life to avenge someone's death? I definitely wouldn't (if it wasn't for Christine, of course; I would cut into pieces anyone who touched a single hair on her angelic head). Those of the human kind are stranger and stranger every day. She even brought a revolver with her; pity she did not know how to use it. Stupid woman. Do I bring a weapon with me if I can't use it? The world above me is full of absurdities. _

_But there is something even stranger. I showed her my face (just wanted her to go and leave me in piece; besides, it is always enjoyable to frighten people and observe their reaction), and she did not run away. Of course she did not know where to go (can someone's carelessness go so far that a person cannot even make the necessary arrangements to remember the way back?), but many others in her place would drown themselves in the lake rather them being near me when I am unmasked. But she did not run. Why didn't she run? I have been asking too many questions lately and there's no one to answer them. One would say I have some kind of predisposition to rhetoric questions. _

_Here I am again, desperately trying to die, while others are trying to live as desperately. Should I try arsenic (I hope it isn't out of date; I bought it many years ago but have no desire to go to chemist's to buy a new one)? _

_:::_

The next few days after the strange events I was very angry with myself. For some incomprehensible reason I wanted to come back to the Opera cellars, to the man that I had suspected of being responsible for my aunt's death. Did I believe him when he said it had not been his fault? I did not know, and that was the worst of all. If he finally turned out to be guilty, would I try to kill him again? All those questions without answers were almost driving me mad.

On December 10th I went for a walk. I was living in my aunt's house, in the Rue de Londres, not very far away from the Palais Garnier. When I arrived at the Boulevard Haussmann, I almost turned back; but some irresistible force made me continue my walk until I found myself in the Rue Scribe, facing the gate which led to the underground cellars.

I stood there for more than ten minutes; I had no idea why I had come. Then I approached the gate. Why did I do it? Was I expecting him to come out? If so, what was I going to do next? I stood there, with my face almost touching the gate and staring into the darkness; I wasn't sure, but I thought I could see the sparkling water of the lake. I was about to go away when I saw him; his eyes shined in the darkness. We stared at each other.

"Have you forgotten something?" he finally said.

"No, I just wanted to talk. Will you let me in?"

"Am I hosting a salon now that people come to me to have a social talk and play some nice music?" the bitterness in his voice made me flinch, but I tried very hard not to show it.

"I don't know. Maybe you are. After all, you play music, don't you?"

"I do. But, for your own sake, you'd better never hear it."

Nevertheless, he let me in, and I submersed again into his strange dark realm.

"This is my musical salon, Mademoiselle," he said with a mocking bow and accentuating the last word, when we entered a dark room with an organ in the corner. "What would you like me to play? Something cheerful, like the Requiem mass or _Dies Irae_?"

"Some Requiem would be lovely," I said calmly, he clearly failed to frighten or disturb me.

However, what he actually played did not sound at all lugubrious and was, instead, really cheerful (at least, as cheerful as a musical piece played on organ could sound).

"Did you write it yourself?" I asked, approaching him a little.

"I can see that Mademoiselle isn't a great connoisseur in music. Am I right, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, I learned some music when I was studying at home," I said defensively; it wasn't the first time that his dismissive tone managed to angry me. "And I think it is time to present myself. My name is Gwenaëlle Le Bris."

"Erik."

"Erik who?"

"Simply Erik. And it was Mozart I have just played. The Fugue in E Flat Major."

"Thank you. It is always good to learn something new. Where were you taught to play so well? Did you go to the Conservatory?"

He laughed and I immediately regretted having asked that stupid question.

"I can see that you have an unusual sense of humour, Mademoiselle Le Bris. By the way, why are you still not married?"

"I think I have already told you that it wasn't of any concern of yours," the pity I began to feel towards Erik was once again replaced by the antipathy I had felt from the first time I saw him. "I am, actually, engaged to be married. Though, I don't know why I am telling you this; I owe you no explanations."

Without uttering a word in reply, he went to his organ and began to play again.

"Mozart?" I asked when he had finished.

"No, Bach. 'Little' Fugue in G Minor," Erik answered, getting up. "I can't believe you really cannot distinguish Mozart from Bach."

"If you invited me only to enjoy insulting me, I would rather go."

"First of all, I did not _invite_ you, you came without any invitation. And, secondly, I cannot believe anyone can actually be that ignorant."

"That's enough, I am leaving. Open that gate."

I walked past Erik, without even looking at him; he did not move. I, with my "marvellous" sense of orientation in space, did not remember how to arrive to the gate, which would lead me to the Rue Scribe, and I had to stop.

"Is everyone in Bretagne so stubborn?" he asked after some insufferable minutes of silence. "Or are you different from the others?"

"How do you know I am from Bretagne?"

"It wasn't very difficult to guess, having heard your name," he murmured reluctantly.

"I am different from the others," I said, approaching him again. "Have always been."

"I see," he said with unexpected sadness. "I am different, too. Though, I would rather be like everyone else."

At the end, I did not leave. I couldn't understand what forced me to stay there and what strange attraction I found in that man. He showed me some other rooms, one of which was his bedroom.

"It is here where Erik sleeps," he showed me a coffin.

"I suppose it must be quite comfortable," I commented, trying to supress a shudder; was he trying again to impress and to frighten me?

The walls of his bedroom were all black and I could see a very big stave of music with the notes of _Dies Irae_, repeated many times (actually I got to know it was _Dies Irae _thanks to the words, because, as Erik had already pointed out, I was quite ignorant in music, though enjoyed listening to it).

There was another organ inside that room and a music-book. I was curious to know what was inside the book, but, for some strange reason, did not dare to ask him; I somehow sensed it hold some dark secret of his.

Erik did not show me the Louis-Philippe room, and I knew better than to ask him why.

"Now you know where I live," he said with the satisfaction of a good host. "Wonderful place, isn't it? Since I came to leave here, about eight years ago, I had never had any problems with some nosy neighbours. That's the advantage of being a little isolated."

"It's rather nice," I admitted. "In its own way."

"And you would be happy to share this flat with me. Is it not so, Mademoiselle Le Bris?"

I was left completely speechless; I was expecting everything, apart from that.

"We hardly know each other," it was a rather strange thing to say to a manic who was proposing me to stay in the underground cellars with him, but I had never been good at choosing what to say in such occasions. "How old are you?" it was also a very weird thing to ask, but I was desperately trying to say something which would save me from my embarrassment.

"I'm not sure about my age," Erik shrugged his shoulders. "My mother never celebrated my birthday, and I was too much in a hurry when I was leaving my parents' village to stop at the local church to take the birth certificate with me. I know I was born at the beginning of the thirties. So, would you stay?"

I did not answer and stared at the floor, suddenly becoming interested in wooden slabs.

"It means you wouldn't stay, even for some short period of time. Have I understood correctly?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you mean. I hardly know you and, honestly, still don't trust you. You have been terrorising people from this theatre and, no matter what you say, you may be responsible for my aunt's…"

"Here we go again!" he exclaimed with fury. "The damn chandelier! How many times must I repeat that I did not drop it? Is it my fault that these idiots, who call themselves directors of the Opera House, cannot even take security measures?" he began walking in circles and clenching his fists.

"Calm down," I approached him from behind. "I don't know why, but I believe you. I really do. But I don't understand why you want me to stay. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," he finally stopped his mad pace. "Actually, I don't want you to stay. I just wanted to know that you would do it if I asked you to. But, since I don't ask, there is no need for you to stay."

That statement confused me even more. The man was either playing some strange game with me or was utterly deranged. And yet, I was, somehow, attracted to him, in a strange way. He may well be mad, but I had never met someone as mysterious and unhappy as him.

"I would stay with you, Erik, if you wanted me to," I finally said.

"Even after seeing _this_?" he pointed to his masked face, his voice just a murmur.

"I have already told you I did not care about those things. It is only a face and – even if it sounds very banal – a person is much more than his or her appearance."

"Do you telling the truth?" his voice was hardly audible.

"Of course I am. As you have probably managed to see, I am not someone who tends to flatter others."

He stood without moving, with his head bent down, and then, suddenly, he fell to the floor, and began to sob.

I had never seen such a display of emotions in a grown-up man and did not know how to react. Then, hesitantly, I approached him and put my hand on his head; his sobbing only increased. If I was finally going to stay with Erik for some time – only for a short period of time, of course – it would be rather difficult for us both. But he needed me (not really me, but someone who could act as his friend); and, although I would never admit it, I needed someone too, almost as desperately as he did.

**Note: **Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **newbornphanatic, RedDeathLvr and chaz1997, thanks a lot for your reviews!

**Chapter V**

**The conflict**

My stay in the underground cellars was anything but easy. Erik was not what I would call an ideal person to live with; though he was definitely doing his best. We began arguing from the first day.

"I wonder what they are doing now," he pointed to the ceiling, "those cretins who run my theatre."

"Why cretins?" I asked with a smile. "Maybe they are not that bad after all. I know Monsieur Richard personally, and he has always seemed to me a clever well organised man."

"Really?" Erik made no attempt to hide a mockery in his voice. "Very clever indeed. That's why he has never managed to stage a single opera without my interventions."

"What makes you think so?" I was beginning to feel a little irritated by his haughtiness and his lack of respect towards anyone apart from himself.

"What makes me think so? How about the fact that he is completely incapable of choosing competent singers and understands nothing of ballet and of music in general? Yes, you heard me correctly – his knowledge in music is nil."

"This is hardly possible," I retorted, trying to stay calm. "Monsieur Richard is a very distinguished composer, who has published a lot of different musical works."

"A distinguished composer!" Erik made a disdainful gesture with his hand. "As distinguished as all of them. To write according to the taste of the general public, who is only looking forward to some cheap entertainment! This is what it means nowadays to be a distinguished composer."

"I think you shouldn't talk about people in such a contemptuous way. Their tastes are different and they are not always cheap. Talking about other composers, they are different as well, and some of them are very talented. You should better recognise their merits; otherwise, you will appear as a very envious person, jealous of other people's success."

He went out of the room, without answering me, and did not direct me a single word for the rest of the day. I understood that I shouldn't have talked to him that way. The impossibility of performing his own music in public obviously pained him a lot, and his reaction had been just natural. My inability to hold my opinion back had done me no good that time.

Apart from that kind of disagreements, my life was quite pleasant. Erik, despite his difficult character, was a perfect gentleman, very kind and attentive. He gave me my own room, which was equipped with every necessity, including a very comfortable bath-room. He told me that I could visit every lodging with the exception of the Louis-Philippe bedroom. I asked him whether he, like Bluebeard, was keeping the corpses of his former wives there. He did not appreciate the joke and spent several hours shooting me murdering glances.

On the fourth day of my stay Erik suggested going for a walk. He put on a mask which made him look, though very ugly, at least almost human (the mask had a nose), and a carriage took us to the Boulevard des Capucines, from where we turned to the left, to the Rue Royale. When we arrived to the Place de la Concorde, we continued our walk on foot. It was already dark, but there were still plenty of people in the square, illuminated with lamps, and I was a little worried by the reaction Erik's appearance might cause. However, there were no incidents, and the walk turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable.

"Thank you, Erik," I said to him when we came back to his home.

He stopped dead, his shoulders stooped.

"You are welcome," he mumbled and I thought he was going to cry again; those signs of weakness were rather disconcerting but also endearing.

That interlude, however, did not last too long, and that same evening, the December 14th, we embarked on a passionate discussion.

"I wonder what this idiot Jules Grévy***** has against the Church," he said during the dinner (I was the only one who was eating because, no matter how hard I tried, he refused to take his mask off in my presence and it was impossible for him to eat while wearing it).

"I'm not very fond of politicians either, but I doubt that the President of the Republic is an idiot. And he is not against the Church; he just doesn't want it to take part in the education, which, according to him, should be secular. I agree with him completely on this point."

"Of course you do!" he exclaimed with unexpected venom. "Soon it won't even be possible to get married in a church because he will close them all."

"And so what?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Are you going to marry someone in a church, Erik?"

He left the table with exasperated look, and I began to wonder if those constant retreats were due to the fact that, knowing his violent nature, he preferred to retire quietly instead of fighting with me. I really hoped he would continue showing the same restrain. My hope, however, did not come true.

Two days after our walk Erik told me some facts about his life. I learned that he had been born near Rouen; that his father had been a master-mason; that he had travelled a lot and had visited Russia, Persia, the Ottoman Empire and many other countries. I was fascinated by his tale; I had already guessed that his life had certainly been very interesting and unusual, but did not realize to what extent. He told me many other things (he probably saw that I was paying attention to his tale); I got to know what he thought about music (though I had already had some glimpses of that), about architecture (it turned out he was also an architect), about the Opera Garnier and its "stupid" directors. And then Erik talked about her, a woman he had been giving singing lessons to. He actually only mentioned her, but it was more than enough to understand that he had been madly in love with her and still was. I did not know why, but that news suddenly made me feel very sad and even a little angry. From what he said, I understood that she had left him. Why did he continue loving her then? That question was rather stupid and naïve, but I still wanted to get the answer.

"You have not told me her name," I said in the middle of the conversation, when he had already begun talking about something else.

"Whose name?" he asked; he knew perfectly well what I was talking about, but did not want to return to that subject.

"That woman's. The one you we giving lessons to. What was her name?"

"Christine," he answered reluctantly.

"Was she a good singer?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Yes, very good," the proudness I heard in Erik's voice made me even angrier.

"You are clearly very fond of her."

"Must we be talking about this?" he asked with impatience and I saw how tense he had become.

"Why not? Don't you like talking about Christine?" I should have stopped, but there was something inside me that did not let me think straight.

"Because I don't want to. Is that not enough?" he was trying very hard to remain calm, but was starting to raise his voice.

"It is. But I don't understand you. She was clearly someone very special to you. Why don't you want to talk about her? Maybe you are angry with her for some reason?"

"Enough!" he got up and started his maddening pace. "I don't want to talk about it; do you understand?" he was almost shouting by then.

"I do, I'm not stupid. What I don't understand is why. Has she wronged you somehow? Wasn't she as good as she had seemed to be?"

"She is an angel," Erik stopped and looked me in the face; his eyes were full of rage. "An angel. Ten thousand times better than you or anybody else. And she kissed me."

"She did what?" I couldn't help bursting into laugh, which enraged him even more.

"She kissed me in the forehead and cried with me! She did not feel afraid of me; she appreciated me like no one else ever had!"

"If she appreciated you so much, why is she not here?"

"What do you mean?" Erik's voice suddenly became very calm, but I knew it was the lull before the storm.

"If she appreciated you, why did she leave? Or maybe it wasn't a real appreciation but only a pity?" it was a terribly cruel and thoughtless thing to say, but I got too carried away.

"How dare you?" Erik made too steps towards me and I thought he was about to jump at my neck and strangle me. "Get out of here or I'll kill you with my own hands!" he was almost whispering but it was even scarier.

"Stop talking to me in this way!" I tried to hide my fear behind the mask of bravado. "Can't you stand to hear an opinion different from your own? If that Christine of yours was so wonderful, invite her to your house and talk only with her. She must be the kind of person who always agrees with you, but I am not. And I still think you are idealising her."

Instead of answering me, Erik approached his cupboard, opened it and, with a terrifying methodicalness, started throwing its contents to the floor. Then he suddenly turned towards me and, raising his hand, made a movement of throwing a soup tureen he was holding at me. I was so shocked that, despite the common sense, made to attempt to run. At the end, he throw it to the floor with such force that it broke into thousand pieces. Finally I recovered my senses and ran.

I knew where he was keeping the keys from the gate which led to the Rue Scribe; they were inside a small box in the musical room. Fortunately, I was able to find the exit on my own and unlocked the gate with a trembling hand. The noise Erik was making had stopped by then, and I suddenly heard him calling my name. Maybe he wanted me to come back and stay? I stopped and listened; he called me again. But then I remembered the craziness in his eyes. I felt pity for him, but he was so mad that I began fearing for my life.

Once in the Rue Scribe, I walked very fast, almost ran; not because I was afraid he would follow me, but because of my inner turmoil. True, he was very unstable, but all that wouldn't have happened if I had not been that thoughtless. Why did I speak to him that way? Why did I allow my jealousy – and, not matter how hard I tried to convince myself it was something else, I knew it had been jealousy – to take the better of me? Everything was so good – not perfect, but good nevertheless – and I had ruined it all with my own hands.

That day the Parisian people were looking with curiosity and bewilderment at a strange dishevelled woman, who was running like a mad and almost crying.

_:::_

**_*_**_ Jules Grévy (1807-1891) – a President of the French Third Republic from 1879 to 1887.  
_

**Note: **Thank you very much for reading!


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **Thank you to Samantha Michaelis and newbornphanatic for their reviews and to everyone who has added my story to favourites or alerts!

**Chapter VI**

**Despair**

**_Thursday, December 16_****_th_****_, 1880_**

_Why have I done it? Why? I hate myself! Why have I let her go? Why, why? Nothing is making sense anymore. _

_I wanted to die and she brought some meaning into my life. She is not Christine – no one will ever be like her – but she helped me nevertheless. And I turned her out. Now I want to die even more than before. And I will die. _

_Is there anyone as unhappy as I am? All classical tragedies ever written could not express the despair I am feeling!_

_:::_

I spent several days without knowing what to do. On the one hand, I knew that I shouldn't even think of coming back to Erik; and at the same time I wanted to see him. I was hesitant to admit it even to myself, but I had gotten used to that strange and probably crazy man. His temper was unpredictable; his past, quite dark (and I still wasn't sure that he was truly innocent of my aunt's death), but I grew very fond of him. Why had that happened? I did not know.

In fact, I was deceiving myself – I was well aware of the reason of that strange affection. I had always wanted to find someone who would understand me and, the more I searched for that person, the more I understood that it was pointless. What I had said to Erik was true – I was engaged to be married. It was also true that I did not love my fiancé and the feeling was probably mutual. In fact, I wasn't desperate to get married, but the pressure of the society was too much for me.

I was born in Nantes in 1846. My parents died when I was little, and I was forced to live with my aunt (whom, as I have already said, I had loved a lot). I needed to marry someone, actually anyone. I almost did not care who it would be because that man would never achieve the ideal I had formed in my head. Being an ideal it was, of course, unachievable.

It is not that I'm saying that Erik fitted perfectly into that ideal, but he was completely different from anyone I had ever met. And he was a genius; subconsciously, I understood that almost from the first moment I saw him. I also understood that he was mad (maybe not really mad, but, at least, had a very unpredictable temper). But weren't all geniuses like that? What really worried me was his predisposition towards violence. To tell the truth, I had not seen that predisposition yet – Erik had shown me how enraged he could become, but had never touched me. But what if he could have done it? What if he had been violent before? He had told me something about his life, but he had probably omitted a large number of facts.

_:::_

**_Friday, December 17_****_th_****_, 1880_**

_I am not going to die. At least not now. I must do something first, something very important. _

_What a strange idea really, to die like that! Like some tragic heroine from Cherubini's__*** **__opera! What a tendency to pathos I have! To die without revenge? Just like that? How happy they would all be! But I don't want them to be happy; they will not have it their way, but mine. Those of the human race must finally understand how terrible I can become _

_And they will understand it. Soon, very soon._

_:::_

One week after my escape from Erik, on December 23rd, a man came into my aunt's house. My uncle, my aunt's husband, was already out of hospital, and I was looking after him when the bell of the front door rang. I recognised that man immediately – he was the one who had followed Erik to the underground; thanks to him I had found out where Erik lived.

"Mademoiselle Le Bris, I need your help," he said instead of greetings.

"How do you know who I am?" I asked, though I already knew the answer to that question.

"Erik told me your name. Mademoiselle, you must go with me."

"Don't you think we are going too fast, Monsieur?" he seemed to me a good and a trustful person, but I was a little irritated by his lack of manners; he had not even presented himself.

"Please, Mademoiselle, I beg you to forgive me," he took his hat off and made a small bow. "I haven't even presented myself. Farid Mazandarani at your service."

"Glad to meet you, Monsieur Mazandarani. Please, come in," he hesitated but then let me lead him to the sitting room. "You are a friend of Erik's then?"

"Let's say, I am the closest person to a friend he could ever have. Erik has no friends."

"Because of his face?" I couldn't help asking that question.

"Have you seen him?" asked Farid with a mixture of terror and incredulity.

"Yes, I have," I did not intend to sound that defensive, but, unfortunately, I did.

"Yes and no," he said after a small pause. "Because of his face. He has some other defects though."

"Other defects? I don't understand," I suddenly began to feel very nervous; what was that man trying to imply?

"Let put it this way," Farid was clearly very nervous as well, and moved uncomfortably in his chair; "Erik can sometimes be violent."

"Yes," I let a sigh of relief escape my lips. "I already know that."

"You do?" he looked genuinely surprised. "He told you what he had been doing in Persia then?"

"He told me he had been there. And what had he been doing? What are you trying to tell me?" I was becoming nervous again.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, I'm afraid you are quite ignorant about the true nature of this man," Farid sighed heavily. "He was working for the Shah-in-Shah in Persia and, following the monarch's orders, killed many of the Shah's political enemies. Besides, he created a torture chamber."

"A torture chamber?" I felt my vision blurring.

"Yes, a torture chamber; and then he created its replica in his underground house. I had the misfortune of being there, as well as the Viscount de Chagny."

"The Viscount de Chagny?" I was only able to repeat the man's last words; I did not understand why, but I was feeling as though my world were collapsing.

"The Viscount de Chagny was Christine Daaé's fiancé. You probably heard something about her."

"I did," I whispered and had to sit down in order not to fall.

"I would explain you all this, Mademoiselle Le Bris, but I'm afraid we hardly have any time left. We must go to Erik right now."

"What for?" I suddenly felt completely indifferent to everything, as though I were in some sort of trance.

"You should speak to him. If there is anyone who can stop him, it is you, Mademoiselle. From what he told me, he trusts you and grew very fond of you."

"I can stop him from doing what?" I asked with weariness; that man had the unpleasant habit of implying more than he actually said."

"From doing something terrible. From what you have told me; I understand that you don't know what kind of person Erik really is. He hates people, those of the human race, as he calls them. Taking into account what he has been through, it is quite understandable. But he doesn't simply hate them – he'll stop at nothing to take his revenge even if that means exterminating a large number of people."

"You are lying!" I shouted, finally breaking out of my trance. "He would never do something like that. Why are you slandering him? Why do you hate him? Why do you think I will believe these calumnies?"

"I am not slandering him, Mademoiselle," Farid said with a sad smile. "And I don't hate Erik. I am, actually, worried about him. You may not believe me if you don't want to, but, for Erik's sake and for that of the other's, you'd better go to him. If you don't, terrible things will happen."

"What things?" I asked, ashamed of my outburst.

"In the best of the cases, he will kill himself. In the worst, he will kill himself with the others. I'm sorry to tell you that, but he had already attempted to blow the Opera Theatre up."

I felt that my knees were starting to tremble, and only the willpower I had developed kept me from breaking down. What kind of monster have I fallen in love with?

_:::_

**_Thursday, December 23_****_rd_****_, 1880_**

_I know what I will do. Now I know. I have nothing more to lose. All my life I have been struggling to find my place in life, to become like everybody else. And now I don't want it anymore. I am not like everybody else, I am like no one. I am and have always been myself. My life has always been utterly different from all the "normal" lives. And my death will be different as well. Completely different. All those pathetic people, how surprised they will be!_

_Daroga came to my house. Can't he finally leave me in peace? He said he thought I was already dead. Well, unfortunately for him and for the rest of the world, I am not. Not yet. I am afraid I had told him too much, even about Gwe… that woman. Why did I not keep my mouth shut? I will end up killing that man, which will be really sad. Like I once told him, I would be sorry to dedicate him my Requiem mass._

_And she… she will spend the rest of her life regretting having abandoned me. I will be coming to her in her dreams till the day she dies._

_:::_

_** *** Luigi Cherubini (1760-1842) - an italian composer._

**Note: **Thanks a lot for reading!


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **MissJemima, thanks a lot for your review! I have corrected the thing you mentioned. :)

**Chapter VII**

**Hesitations**

"He had already attempted to blow the Opera Theatre up." Those words resonated in my head. I suddenly became very angry – Erik and that friend of his were probably just using me for their own purposes. And, after all, what did I know about Erik, apart from the fact that he was known as the Opera Ghost and had maybe dropped the chandelier that had killed my aunt? Had I been so desperate to finally meet someone special in my life that I was going to trust a person like him? And what was I supposed to do now? Why, of all the possibilities, it had to be I who was caught in that situation?

"Sorry, but I don't believe you. Erik would never do something like that," it wasn't what I was going to say, but those strange words escaped my lips in spite of my own will; I was beginning to lose control of myself and it wasn't at all pleasant.

"Your doubts are perfectly understandable, Mademoiselle, but, unfortunately, I am telling the truth."

"What do you want from me then?"

"I have already told you – we must go to Erik and try to stop him. I see you still don't believe me. If you had seen him in a state I had, you would know I'm not lying to you."

Deep inside I knew that Monsieur Mazandarani was right – I had to go with him before it was too late. But, for some strange reason, I still hesitated. Actually the reason wasn't strange at all – I did not know what to expect from Erik. True to his elusive way of speaking, Farid did not really explain what was happening, but from what he said, I could deduce that Erik had gone completely mad and was capable of anything.

I understood that there was no logic in my reasoning and that, knowing that Erik was dangerous to himself and to the others, I should go to him. Nevertheless, I couldn't lose the feeling that it was some bad joke. Erik was certainly a very unstable person, but, would he be capable of blowing a building full of people up? And, even if he were, how would he do it? He certainly wasn't keeping explosives inside his house, was he? The idea seemed utterly absurd.

_:::_

**_4 pm, Thursday, December 23_****_rd_****_, 1880 _**

_I have plenty of gunpowder left. It isn't wet anymore. More than enough to blow this damned theatre up. I wanted to do it once, but she stopped me. Christine stopped me. And how did she do it? She promised to become my wife. And I, the fool, believed her! I believed her! And I let her go! How did she repay me? She forgot me! She did not even come to bury me. I hate her as much as I loved her once. I would like to kill her right now! But I can't; she is not here. So I will have to kill someone else. _

_Poor people – I almost feel sorry for them; at the end, it is not their fault. They are just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. _

_:::_

"I will go with you, but once it's over, I want nothing to do with all this."

"You can't even imagine, Mademoiselle Le Bris, how happy I am with your decision," he looked happy indeed. "You are the only one able to help me to reason with Erik."

"The only one?" I stopped, a sudden idea coming into my head. "And why don't you ask Christine Daaé to help you? Isn't she the one for whom Erik would do everything? Or you already have and she is unwilling to talk to him?" I did not like the malice and the bitterness in my voice, but I couldn't help it; the antipathy I felt towards Christine Daaé was growing every minute.

"Unfortunately, I had no idea where she might have gone. She and Raoul de Chagny left Paris several weeks ago."

"It is really a shame," I said with the same bitterness as before. "There's no way to contact her then?"

"No. Believe me, Mademoiselle, if I could deal with this problem without involving you, I would gladly do so. You are my only hope."

"Let us go," I finally said. "There is no time to lose. Do you know the way? Of course you do," I answered my own question, remembering that it was he who had guided me to Erik's house, without knowing it.

In five minutes time we were on our way to the Palais Garnier.

_:::_

**_5 pm, Thursday, December 23_****_rd_****_, 1880 _**

_I'm going to die alone. I wanted everything to be different, but I won't be able to do it. Only to think about the effect it would cause to destroy the entire building! I can already see the headlines. Every respectable, and not so respectable, newspaper would write about it – Le Figaro, La Presse, Journal des Débats, Le Petit Journal, La Gazette, Le Siècle… I wish I could read their articles (of course I wouldn't; I would be already dead). But, at the end, no one will write anything about my death (the obituary in l'Époque doesn't count). _

_It is obvious that I wanted to make some kind of impression. No, not just some kind of impression – I wanted it to be really terrible! "The Opera Ghost dies, bringing the entire building full of 2,000 people with him." But I won't do it – I feel sorry for the theatre; it was I who built it in the first place (someone would suggest that Charles Garnier helped me a little, but this is irrelevant). _

_But I'll have to choose something easier, something… how would I call it? Less sanguinary? Because, frankly speaking, even for me it would be too much. No matter what that old daroga thinks of me, I am not that bad (not particularly good either, of course); it is one thing to follow the little Sultana's caprices to save your own skin and another to help so many people to be gathered with their fathers. This won't do._

_What do I have left? I will kill myself; of course I will. And I will take my revenge; if those ungrateful women return to my house, they will find my corpse and will be full of remorse, so much remorse! They won't sleep peacefully anymore! How would they, knowing that they killed me? I know Christine (better than anyone else, definitely better than that boy) and she is a good girl; easily influenced but good. She will never forgive herself when she learns what happened to me! And the other one won't forgive herself either! And to think that I trusted that woman! How much I hate them both! _

**_5.45 pm, Thursday, December 23_****_rd_****_, 1880 _**

_I don't hate them, I love them! I love them! Christine and the other one. And they abandoned me! Why did they abandon me? And the second one said that she did not care how I looked like! Liar! Why didn't I kill her?_

_I should calm down; it is not good to present myself in front of the Devil in such a state (the real one, not the buffoon from Gounod's opera). I am not sure I believe in all this anymore, but, in case I go somewhere after I die, it definitely won't be Heaven. My poor mother would be appalled by my blasphemies – she was so religious. _

_:::_

The sense of irreality did not abandon me during our walk towards the Opera. What was I doing? Why was I doing that? Where was that man taking me? And if it were a trap, if he was bringing me to Erik to kill me afterwards? It seemed highly improbable, but you could never be too careful, and the whole situation was strange to say the least.

"Wait me here, Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Mazandarani when we arrived to the lake.

He moved to the other shore, using the boat, which, for some strange reason, appeared at that side of the lake. When, about ten minutes later, he came back, I understood immediately that something was terribly wrong.

"What is it?" I asked impatiently, seeing that he was not going to offer me any explanation. "What has Erik told you? Is he very angry? Has he threatened to blow the entire building up?" I shuddered at my own words.

"No, Mademoiselle Le Bris, he said nothing of the sort."

"What is it then?" I asked, my impatience growing. "What has he said?"

"Nothing."

"Has he refused to talk to you?"

"It is not that he has refused; it has been impossible for him to talk."

"Monsieur, I really am tired of your riddles. Would you kindly explain yourself?" it was a rather impolite thing to say, but, at that point, I did not care.

"Erik couldn't talk to me because he is dead."

**Note: **Thanks a lot for reading!


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note: **Samantha Michaelis, chaz1997 and newbornphanatic, thank you very much for your reviews and sorry for the evil cliffhanger!

**Chapter VIII**

**Forgiveness**

"Dead? But how?" I did not know what else to say and stood completely immobile for a few seconds.

"I don't know," answered Farid, he seemed really upset and, for the first time, I thought that he may really care for Erik. "He is inside his coffin and he is not breathing. He must have taken the poison."

The irony of it did not escape me – when people were inside coffins they normally did not breathe. That time, however, it was different.

"I want to see him," I said with determination and stepped into the boat.

"Mademoiselle, I really don't think it's wise."

"I don't care whether it is wise or not, Monsieur, but I will see Erik. Will you help me with the boat? Or shall I be forced to do it by myself?"

"As you wish," Farid was clearly surprised by my unexpected behaviour. Had I seemed that pathetic to him that he had thought me incapable of such determination?

He led the boat to the other shore and I entered Erik's house. When I approached the door that led to his bedroom, I felt my knees shaking. The door was half open and I pushed it.

I was greeted by a strange reddish light, which, as I immediately discovered, came from a red gas lamp. Erik's coffin was open. He was inside it, wearing his black silk mask and a white tie suit. At that moment he appeared even thinner and more fragile than ever, a real skeleton dressed in clothes. Apart from the lamp, there were candles everywhere, red and black candles. Erik was wonderful at creating effects – the sense of death was overwhelming and I had to use all my willpower to remain in the room.

I looked at the immobile figure in the coffin very closely – he was not breathing. I knew that I should try to search for a pulse but couldn't make myself do it as though fearing that he may disappear under my touch. Nevertheless, I took his thin wrist in my hand – there wasn't any pulse. I let his hand fall inside the coffin and kept looking at his incredibly thin and long fingers. I did not even notice how my cheeks became wet and, only when my vision blurred, I understood that I was crying.

It took me almost half an hour to calm down and, when it finally happened, I immediately wished I hadn't for I began feeling completely numb. Everything, including the extreme grief, was preferable to that strange indifference. The only thing I wanted was to be left alone or, even better, to find another coffin and to lie there until I died. Monsieur Mazandarani, who tactfully had not entered before, finally approached me and put a hand on my shoulder. He did it very carefully, as though not knowing how I would react. Though I did not show it, I was grateful to him for that small gesture.

"We must bury him," he said in a very quiet voice after some seconds of silence.

"Yes," I nodded; I did not know how I would find any strength for that, but it was the only thing left to do.

I was going to bury him, leave that place forever and try to forget everything that had happened there, though I knew I would never forget. I didn't want to forget, but to carry it with me the rest of my life. I was completely sure by then that it would be the most important, the most beautiful and, at the same time, the most terrible thing that had ever happened to me. It would also be, without a doubt, the only time I had fallen in love; I did not know why, but I was completely sure of that.

As Erik was already inside the coffin, we only had to close it and to bury him somewhere in the underground cellars, near his house. We should hide him carefully, so that someone who might have ventured to go down there wouldn't have found his grave.

Monsieur Mazandarani began with all the necessary preparations while I was seating near the coffin without any strength left. But then something very strange happened. At first, I thought it was some kind of hallucination and that my grief had deprived me of the use of reason. I saw, or I at least I thought I did, Erik's hand moving. The movement was barely perceptible and could be perfectly attributed to post-mortem seizures, but I couldn't help feeling some kind of hope inside me. I got up and looked inside the coffin – nothing had changed. But then the movement repeated itself. I lifted his hand and, for the second time, searched for a pulse. It was there, very feeble, but I could feel it nevertheless.

I don't remember exactly what I did next. I must have called for Farid, for he came to the room very quickly. Immediately we lifted Erik and transported him to the room where I had been sleeping, placing him on the bed.

The next days were spent on fighting for Erik's life. Calling for a doctor was out of question, but fortunately both Farid and I had some kind of medical knowledge and tried to help Erik the best we could. At the beginning I wanted to give him some antidote for arsenic, but it turned out there wasn't any. We could only wait. And we waited and waited and waited. Finally, on the third day, he regained consciousness.

"Now I can clearly see that I have gone to Hell. Not that I doubted it before, daroga, but your presence here proves it perfectly," it was the first and the only thing Erik said before falling asleep.

I had to go to his bedroom and spent about ten minutes laughing and crying at the same time, until I was so exhausted that I fell asleep inside the coffin.

_:::_

**_Saturday, January 15_****_th_****_, 1881_**

_At the end I am not dead. I suppose I should be feeling angry about this, but I don't (what I am angry about is having been lying there without my mask because they took it off!). Of course daroga and Gwe… she (I don't know why, but I still can't make myself pronounce her name, it appears to me some kind of betrayal towards Christine) had no right to stop me. I had been so near my goal, but, for some strange reason, they decided to bring me back from the realm of the dead, where I probably belong anyway. And I must feel angry about it, enraged even; but I don't. I tried to be, but couldn't. Is it possible that I wasn't so eager to die after all? The idea is utterly absurd – what should I be living for?_

_Daroga visits me from time to time. He is starting to be really annoying with that garlic of his – he read somewhere that garlic was good for fighting arsenic poisoning and now feeds me with it every time he comes._

_That strange woman says she is going to stay with me for the time being. Why? Can it be possible that she feels something towards…? No! I won't even think about it! There are plenty of other things to think about; why should I be always returning to the same subject? Like my new opera, for example. Yes, it may sound strange, but I am writing a new opera._

_It all began a week ago, when I was yet too weak to get up from my bed (I had almost forgotten how it felt to be sleeping in a real bed). I had nothing to do and so I asked her to bring me my sheet music paper. Then I started composing and I couldn't stop till the overture and the first three scenes of the first act were finished. It will be called _Purgatory_, from Dante's _Purgatory _(which will also serve me as libretto) – I was in too a good mood to write about Hell, but couldn't choose Heaven either, so it had to be something in between._ _If it goes on this way, I will finish it very soon. She seems happy with my decision, but what do I care? She knows nothing about music anyway._

**_Monday, January 17_****_th_****_, 1881_**

_Who am I trying to lie to?! I do care about what she thinks and says! I care a lot! And she knows that; of course she does. _

_Yesterday I asked her to leave me and to never come back._

_"I appreciate your assistance – though, it wasn't really necessary – but, as far as I am concerned, you have nothing more to do in my house; so I kindly ask you to leave."_

_I was myself impressed by my vehemence and my calm voice, which I adopted while my heart was breaking into ten million pieces. If she had left me, I would have tried to kill myself for the second time and no one would have been able to stop me. But I couldn't, I just couldn't, force her to bury herself with the living corpse. _

_"No matter how hard you try, Erik, I will not leave you again," the calmness of her voice was even more remarkable than mine._

_I did not answer her and feigned being tired and wanting to go to sleep. "I will not leave you again." Did she mean while I am ill or…? Can it be…? Do I dare to hope that…? I am too confused, too agitated to think straight! All I know is that I love her! _

**_Monday, January 24_****_th_****_, 1881_**

_Something incredible has happened! Completely incredible! So incredible that I needed several days to believe it wasn't a dream. Gwenaëlle kissed me! Really kissed me! She kissed me in the lips! Not just in the forehead, like Christine, but in the lips! She took my mask off and kissed me in the lips! Ah!_

_It all makes no sense at all. Firstly, because I don't have lips. And secondly, why? Why did she do it? Why? She says she loves me!_

_And then I asked her about her aunt. She still thought that I had killed the poor woman; well, maybe she was not as sure as she had been before, but she was not convinced of my innocence either. And she said… she said – this is the most incredible thing of all – that she believed it had not been my fault; and that, even if it had, she would forgive me! Forgive me! What have I done to deserve such kindness, I, the monster and the murderer._

_I know I must be careful. I have already learnt what betrayal really meant, but I can't not to believe her. If I don't believe her, my heart will stop. _

_Is it really happening to me or am I dreaming? _

_I feel too confused right now and will probably stop writing this diary for the time being. I must try to put my thoughts straight._

_She kissed me! Today I have written a march for my new opera. A happy march in a major key, full of movement and joy! I have never composed anything like that in my entire life! Ah! She kissed me!_

_Erik is neither poor nor unhappy. No, he is not (and everyone who says he is, including that old daroga, will have to deal with me)! Erik is the happiest man in the entire world!_

**Note: **Thank you for reading! It is almost finished now, with only the epilogue left.


	10. Epilogue

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the characters of The Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's note**: Samantha Michaelis, newbornphanatic, chaz1997, MissJemima, RedDeathLvr, coyotegirl56, Million, thank you very much for your reviews! And thank you to everyone who added my story to Alerts and Favourites!

Newbornphanatic, I think that Gwenaëlle began falling in love with Erik practically from the beginning; she herself mentions it in several chapters and recognizes that the jealousy was the reason why she disliked Christine. But it is true that it was probably too fast for them both and it is difficult to say how it will all turn out. Thank you for your comment :)

**Epilogue**

My second stay with Erik was even more difficult than the first one. He was always trying to throw me out of his house, and I had to convince him more than once that I really wanted to be with him; and yet I think he did not believe me and was expecting some sort of ruse.

But apart from his lack of confidence in me, there were some other problems. I had been too worried about Erik's health to think about it before, but, once the danger was over, I couldn't help returning to that subject over and over again. Was he the kind of person Farid Mazandarani had said he was? Had he really killed people, and more than once? What I had told him about my aunt was true, I would be able to forgive him (though it cost me a lot to make that decision). But what about the others? What was that man really capable of? I tried incredibly hard to put those ideas aside, but it was beyond me. At the end, I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, I was only thinking, trying to find some reasonable justification to Erik's actions and found none. He, of course, noticed the state I was in.

"I must admit I have been expecting something like that," he said one morning, at the beginning of February. "I will attempt nothing to keep you, rest assured," he lowered his head in resignation.

"Erik, what are you talking about?"

"You understand it perfectly well."

"No, I do not."

"You are already regretting your decision to stay here with me. Don't worry, I understand. This is completely normal. As I have just said, I will not…"

"Here we go again! You and your constant, all-possessing self-pity! You are so obsessed with your own suffering that you see nothing around you!"

Erik regarded me with bewilderment – he had not been expecting that kind of reaction.

"I have something to ask you," I said, trying to appear calmer, but actually more nervous than before. "I want you to be completely honest with me. Will you promise me this?"

"If I am an honest person, which is something you clearly doubt, there is no need in promising to be honest with you. But if I am not, such a promise is utterly meaningless – if a dishonest man promises to tell the truth, he will lie twice."

He adopted that cold impassive tone I had already heard more than once. It was even worse than his outbursts of rage. On those occasions I was really afraid of him.

"Please, Erik, I need to know, is it true what your friend said about you?"

"What friend, my dear? You know perfectly well that monsters have no friends, only enemies."

"And _you_ know perfectly well who I am talking about," I was beginning to get angry with him.

"Ah, that old daroga," he made a gesture with his hand, as though he had just remembered something. "Yes, it is true."

"What is true?" I felt my knees shaking.

"What he told you about me. I am a monster, a murderer and he is a saint (never mind that he himself had been working as a chief of police and obeying orders given by that terrible Shah-in-Shah). If it hadn't been for him, I would have killed everyone in this theatre. And, now that you finally know everything, go. Be free! You can, out of pity, live with a monster. But who can force you to live with a murderer? Go and never come back! You have already shown me enough pity!"

His last words were hardly audible because of the sobs; all his haughtiness was gone and he was again desperate and enraged. Such emotional instability in a grown-up man was something off-putting, but, at the same time, strangely endearing; he was much more genuine and sincere than the majority of people I had known.

"Erik, please, try to understand…" I took his hand.

"Lies! All lies!" he withdrew his hand from my grasp. "Now you are trying to find an excuse and leave me without any trace of remorse. It is so easy! 'I wanted to help him, but he turned out to be an awful man, a criminal.' No one will judge you, Mademoiselle, rest assured. Christine, she at least was sincere; she did not hide the fact that she wanted to leave me because she loved that boy. But you, you…" the awful sound made by a plate falling and breaking into pieces made him stop his frenetic monologue.

"This is better," I said with satisfaction; breaking a plate had not been, after all, a bad idea. "And now you will listen to me, _really_ listen," he looked at me with bewilderment, but stopped talking. "I have no intentions whatsoever of leaving you, and I am not looking for any kind of excuse. All I want is the truth."

"And if you don't like _that_ truth, what will you do?" he was so desperate that I became overwhelmed with pity, but I had to remain firm.

"I will stay with you, no matter what you say."

I felt terrible lying to him, but I couldn't find any other way to answer his question. It did matter to me what he was going to say and I knew that I would never be able to stay with a man who committed any kind of atrocities. But I couldn't find courage to tell him that.

"Please forgive me!" he knelt down and I felt even worse, seeing that he had believed me. "Will Gwenaëlle forgive her crazy Erik? He should have known she would never abandon him. Never, never!"

He began covering my dress with kisses and I had to literally force him to get up. Was he really that desperate not to lose me?

"Erik will tell Gwenaëlle everything if she wants him to. Every detail of his monstrous life. Because she promised she would never abandon him, didn't she?" he looked me in the eyes and I averted my gaze; his golden eyes were incredibly piercing, they seemed to look right through my soul."

"Yes, Erik, I did."

"I have nothing to fear then," he said and I understood that I had misjudged him – he did not believe me.

He told me everything, nevertheless. As I had already heard about his early years at his parents' home and his travels, he concentrated on his life in Persia and the things he had had to do at the Shah-in-Shah's Court. He also told how he had become the Opera Ghost and about the torture chamber and Joseph Buquet's death.

"Will you leave right now?" he asked once his tale was finished.

"What?" I was still too immersed in what I had just heard to understand what he truly meant.

"It is obvious that you are going to leave. If I were in your place, I would leave, too. One must be mad to stay with someone like me," his sudden and unexpected calmness was even more terrifying than his anger.

"As I have already told you, I am not leaving you; but you must give me some time."

"You are returning home then," that time there was sarcasm in his voice. "And you want me to believe you will come back? I can be everything you wish, Mademoiselle, but I am not stupid."

"I will stay here, in your house. Just let me to be on my own for a while."

I went straight to my room, without waiting for his answer, and locked the door, not because I was afraid of him (by then I was more than sure that Erik would never harm me), but because I had to think and did not want to be interrupted.

I would lie if I said I wasn't terrified by what I had heard. Farid had been right then (though, as Erik had rightly pointed out, he was far from perfect himself). The worst of all was the fact that Erik wasn't particularly full of remorse. Or maybe he was? He seemed upset by what he had to tell me. In any case, I noticed that he wasn't proud of his actions. He did not enjoy killing people, just did it when it was necessary. I was myself appalled by the way I had phrased it. Necessary? How could a murder be necessary? Staying with Erik definitely went against all my moral principles.

But, on the other hand, there were many people out there who did things much worse than Erik. Besides, those people he had killed were going to die anyway because they had been condemned to death. He had actually been some kind of executioner. But did all that really justify him? And what about the poor Joseph Buquet? And Christine Daaé? He had abducted her. Had he really loved her? More than he would ever be able to love me? I stopped my pacing and pulled my hair in frustration – it wasn't what I should been thinking about!

I spent some awful minutes trying to have some kind of reasonable internal dialogue with myself and failing miserably. At the end, I was so exhausted that I lay on my bed and fell asleep.

I got up with a start. How much time had I been sleeping? And what if Erik had done something to himself? I should have never left him. I ran out of my room, to the musical chamber, and stopped dead; he was sitting at the organ and had just begun playing it. I had never heard something like that in my entire life. I, as Erik had said to me more than once, was rather ignorant in anything related to music, but even I immediately understood that it was unique, something between music and a heart-wrenching moan. It expressed the state he was in better than any words.

I approached him and put my hand on his shoulder. He gave a start and stopped playing, without turning to look at me.

"So, when are you leaving?" the silence must have been unbearable for him and he was forced to talk.

"Right now," I answered without hesitation and he let escape a strange sound, a mixture of a sob and a sigh. "_We_ are leaving right now and we are going for a walk. I have already spent over a month here and I desperately need some fresh air. When we come back, we will think about finding a new place to live."

"A new place?" that time he did not understand me; or was it too good to be true and he was afraid of believing me?

"Yes," I answered nonchalantly. "I hope you are not going to force me to spend the rest of my life inside this grave. No matter how much I like the darkness and the mysteriousness of this place, I am getting tired of it. I wouldn't like to sound like a boring person, but I am afraid I need something a little more conventional to be living in."

"Gwenaëlle, I…" he made an attempt of kneeling down, but that time I did not allow it.

"Erik, stop. Never do it again."

That evening we went for a walk and when we came back, I began thinking about what to do next. Erik was too exhilarated, too mad of joy to help me with that. He ran to his organ and began playing some incredibly fast, almost crazy, melody, which probably expressed his extreme happiness.

To go with Erik to my aunt's house was out of question (not because I was ashamed of him, but I wasn't going to bring a man with me to the house where my uncle was living). I hardly had any money, but it should be enough to rent a small flat in the outskirts of Paris. Besides, Erik certainly had some money as well; although I began to regret that he had returned those forty-thousand francs to the directors (he had told me about many things he had done as the Opera Ghost, including the monthly visits to his "banker").

When I thought everything out, I approached Erik, who had already stopped playing and was sitting at the organ, exhausted (the music had worn him out completely, for he had put his whole being into it). I sat down on his lap and sensed him tensing immediately. Then I embraced him and he visibly relaxed.

I don't know how much time we spent like that, embraced. Then I took his mask off and, surprisingly, he did not protest. We were both completely happy.

I knew that my life with Erik would be difficult, probably extremely difficult. I also couldn't hide from myself the fact that I was still quite uneasy about the things he had told me of his past (and the shadow of my aunt's death still hanged over me); but for me, Erik's positive qualities overweighed the negative ones, and I did not care about what people might think about us. Also, I knew that such moments of happiness would be worth it all.

END

**Note**: Thank you for reading!


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